November 27, 2015

I spent most of the day hiding in the attic, feeling crappy as I often do toward the end of a trip back home. It seems that my dad behaves for 3-4 days. That’s about as long as he can smoke outside the house and keep from chopping onions around me. After that, it’s a free-for-all and he gets really grouchy when I try to explain to him my allergies and the effects on my health these things have on me.

Eventually I headed for my 5 o’clock meal. I opted for City Kitchen since it’s a nearby safety food spot. And they know how to make a negroni. In fact, I think I’m the only one who orders that since their Campari bottle level remains the same until every visit of mine.

When I arrived, there were already a few couples at the bar and I realized that they must open even before 5:00. My options are now expanded. Happy hour starts at 4:30.

My stomach was upset, my sinuses were draining and bleeding. I was kind of a gross mess sitting there at the bar. A familiar bartender was there. I ordered a negroni and she put a healthy slice of orange in it. I went out on a limb and ordered the usual french onion soup (I’m going to eat as much of this as possible until my onion allergy expands from raw to cooked onions) and something new, a shrimp dish. Flash fried shrimp in a garlic cream sauce. Kind of a bizarre order considering dad’s onions set me off this afternoon and I’d already decided that last night’s shrimp cocktail was to blame for my intestinal duress. But the negroni was calming. And I sipped it through a straw while I waited, pretending to watch the football game on the TV.

Everyone at this bar is older than me. A table behind me seats two retiree-aged men and their female counterparts. The guy dominating the conversation admits, “I’ve tried pain pills, muscle relaxers, …scotch. I’m about ready to capitulate and say I’m done.”

To my right is another couple. I hear her say, “whoa! I guess she’s not driving.” when the bartender mixed my drink. I took that opportunity to glance at them and see that she has that short haircut that moms tend to get after they reach a certain age. It makes her look much older than her husband. I’m pretty sure she’s drinking Chardonnay.

My soup arrived and I still hadn’t finished the negroni. Oddly, they went quite well together. I’d forgotten to ask them to hold the little fried onion rings they top the soup with. So I ate those, too. Regrettably. I paused to take another Zyrtec. Now that my allergy doc says I can take up to 4 a day there’s no hesitation. I drank it down with my negroni as the couple next to me settled their bill, pointing out that they didn’t get happy hour prices. Not long after they’re gone, a new man sits to my right where the couple had been.

As the bartender cleared my soup, I ask for a glass of their white bordeaux. The Chateau Ducasse they have on the menu is always a safe order for me as it doesn’t give me a headache and goes well with my soup, salad, and seafood app usual orders. I sip the last sips of my negroni and the man leans toward me and says, “I have to say, a ‘white’ bordeaux just seems wrong.” He has to say? Really? Can’t contain himself. My immediate thought was in the spirit of my friend Jude, “Who the fuck asked you?” But in the spirit of avoiding confrontation, I just looked at him, at his glass of red wine, and went back to sipping my negroni, hoping he’d just regret talking to me. He didn’t persist. Perhaps he witnessed what utter shit I looked like. Or I imagined I looked like since I’d been crying.

In between drinking, pretending to watch football, and letting my soup cool, I was catching up on friends’ post-Thanksgiving updates. Thinking about my own Thanksgiving experience and how much better it was than I expected. I was expecting a lot of judgement. I was expecting lectures on why I shouldn’t quit my job, or at the very least the better way to go about it. I was expecting my young nephews and nieces to have grand stories of their successes and high pay. And I was expecting at least some conservative antagonism. I didn’t get any of that. Instead, I enjoyed a really warm, loving time with family. I had some real conversations about aging, aches, pains, struggles, risks, and opportunities.

My head was getting pretty fuzzy and I started to feel a little sweaty. Am I really sick? What am I coming down with? Was that negroni really that strong?

I’d also been surfing the Internet and came across this piece about a missed connection. I’m not going to lie, it made me well up and I thought “oh god, please don’t let me become a blubbering mess at the bar because of this article.” It reminded me that when you’re filled with dread and despair, it doesn’t necessarily take much to have a pivotal influence. And my tears dried up and with clarity, I started thinking about Camus again, and absurdity and suicide.

Note: When you talk to some stranger at a bar, you better be prepared for what’s going through their head.

So, instead of lashing out at the man, I went back to waiting for my shrimp. The shrimp was great. I would order it again in a heartbeat. And the Bordeaux Blanc was right, not wrong.

When I got home, I still felt off. Not drunk, just draggy and tired. I used my new little breathalyzer keyfob I got at Costco: .05. What then?

I looked in my little pill case, checking to see if I had any Zyrtec left, or if there was anything I could take for what I was feeling. But, there were no Zyrtec, and I realized that there actually hadn’t been any this whole time. Just Xanax.

Those light green little ovals don’t look all that different from white ovals in the dim light of the bar.